


What Remains of a Saint

by clown_city



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst and Porn, Crimson Flower, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Black Eagles Route Spoilers, M/M, Male Solo, Masturbation, Seteth and Flayn Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:21:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24945283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clown_city/pseuds/clown_city
Summary: After battling against Seteth, Byleth pays a visit to the Holy Tomb.
Relationships: My Unit | Byleth/Seteth
Kudos: 26





	What Remains of a Saint

**Author's Note:**

> byleth spares seteth and flayn but still is upset! if u killed them in ur run what u need 2 know is they go to live a secluded life again, forever cut off from the world. enjoy this nastiness (≧▽≦)ノ .｡.:*☆

Saint Cichol was not dead. Byleth knew the coffin lying cold before his eyes would be empty. 

Its design was simple. Crest emblazoned on the grey-green stone lid, it exuded an aura of powerful nothingness.

The moment Byleth had returned to the monastery after battle, his feet carried him down to the once-forbidden reaches of the Holy Tomb. It was where he had received his sword, many years ago. More importantly, it housed the comfortably empty coffins of the Four Saints. As he dragged the lid off the coffin, displacing a millenium's worth of cobwebs half swept away by a servant's broom, he knew for a fact that Saint Cichol was not dead within.

The coffin lid thundered to the floor. Byleth did what his body told him to do— he climbed in. The stone inside was lined with roughspun cloth, only bordering total tatters due to being sealed and untouched for so long. This coffin was meant for a cold body, but it made a fine home for a warm one.

Saint Cichol was not dead, but he was dead to the world. Byleth had watched as, faced with the point of the Sword of the Creator, he gathered Cethleann in his arms and vanished in a flash of light. This was the true power of the goddess, and what Byleth would be facing eventually should he ever choose to crawl out of this coffin.

The look on Seteth's face was what broke Byleth. The fear, betrayal, and hatred in his eyes were like flames lapping at Byleth's sanity. Saint Cichol was alive somewhere, but he was dead to Byleth.

Like raindrops, memories of Seteth fell upon him. Bowing his head in silent laughter over a cup of tea. Adjusting his hair after Byleth had spotted a flash of pointed ear. The strain in his voice the whole month Flayn was missing, and the nigh delirious gratitude therein after Byleth found her. How could Byleth help but to fall in love with him? First tears, first smile, first love— Garreg Mach had claimed them all from Byleth, and now the latter was dead to him.

How long Byleth lay there, he did not know. It could have been hours. It could have been days. It could have been a millenium.

Byleth was well familiar with the concept of desecration. He and Edelgard had engaged in it in their assault upon the monastery. No matter how much hatred of the Church Edelgard could inspire in him while they both inhabited the monastery, Byleth could not shake the feeling of being in a holy place. And so any and all destruction —every statue maimed, every portrait of Lady Rhea taken down, every spot on the cathedral floor left more out of spite than of carelessness— was desecration.

One more desecrated holy space could hardly make a difference in the goddess's eyes. This was Byleth's rationale as his fingers crept downwards, hardly coherent through his mind's haze of grief. 

He started simply touching through his pants, building up the want inside of him more than he had ever felt before. "Cichol," he whispered, "Cichol, Cichol _._ "

The image of Seteth's face as he vanished flashed again through Byleth's mind. He couldn't lose his momentum, not when his unbeating heart was already coiled in knots.

Seteth taking Byleth's hand in his. Seteth smiling and congratulating him. All he could have seen of Seteth had he turned his blade on Edelgard.

Byleth was touching himself fully now, throbbing length protected from the tomb's chill air by the frantic speed of his sweaty hand.

"Cichol," he moaned. "Cichol,  _Cichol!_ "

The sound of footsteps echoed through the Holy Tomb. Byleth did not stop. After once again, twice again crying out Saint Cichol's name in vain, the footsteps halted, then started up again, fading back from whence they came.

Byleth was desperate now, starving for that release, and somehow believed it would be Seteth that gave it to him. He pushed himself harder, harder, burning with holy fire, moaning, screaming, "Cichol, Cichol,  oh please, _Seteth!_ "

It was over too fast, too soon had he already desecrated Saint Cichol's coffin. The haze in his mind shifted; it was different now, filled almost entirely with the desire to hold Seteth close.

But Seteth was not here with Byleth now. Nor would Byleth ever see Seteth again. At this, he wept. Finally, a true and faithful mourner, he wept.

He looked at the white semen which he had so irreverantly angled towards the coffin wall; little had gotten on himself. Floating down from his high, he decided he wouldn't clean it up. The soiling of his coffin was petty retribution for in his last moments alive to the world not pushing the Sword aside and kissing Byleth on the lips. If Saint Cichol was by his side, Byleth could instead revere him properly.

He wasn't sure when or for how long he slept. All time was night in the Holy Tomb. He had no dreams.

When he woke, a face loomed over the coffin, full of care and worry and  _love_. It was Edelgard. Byleth said nothing.

"My teacher," she said softly. "I'm glad to have found you."

Byleth managed a smile.

"Now come," she said, stroking his hair and tracing all the way down to his hand, and grasped it firmly. "If you need to vent your grief, I'm here." She pulled, and Byleth's body rose like a puppet. "But Saint Cichol is dead, my teacher. He's not coming back."


End file.
